


Synchronicity

by miranda_wave (miranda_askher)



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Music, cellos are awesome, metaphors are sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-06
Updated: 2011-10-06
Packaged: 2017-10-24 08:43:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/261374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miranda_askher/pseuds/miranda_wave
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is more than one way of traveling in time and space. Canon-compliant through Series 6.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Synchronicity

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the who_contest drabble challenge #5 (Music), over at LJ.

It is beautiful—no, extraordinary—to watch this. To hear this.

The glass of the floor resonates with the swell and lift of the accelerando, the airy breath of anticipation in the caesura. He stands on the sound, in it, while it finds a rhythm in his pulses. Through him pours the swirl of melody, all the flow of a river of sound.

It is only a collection of waves, modulated in amplitude and frequency through the friction of horsehair on silver and gut, that reverberates through the cool air of the TARDIS. He knows his physics, but the throaty song of the old cello makes him forget those numbers, the day, the hour, the smooth hard edge of the doorway against his back. Everything and nothing come together in tone and rest: all of time and space, terrifying and irresistible.

The fugue burns toward its climax: the last crescendo, a final inversion and then they are balancing just _there_ , breathless, on one endless ringing pause. That space between leap and landing, infinitesimal and infinite, echoes in him, in them. He aches for it (the tension in the arch of her wrist) and exults (her head thrown back, lamp blazing through her wild curls). For one miraculous moment, there is nothing at all between them.

And then she lifts the bow as he inhales: perfect synchronicity. Her strong hands begin to draw the theme from the strings again, steady and serene. Breathe out.

Last night she sang with the quantum harp, her raw-silk alto murmuring through endless subatomic harmonies. Tomorrow perhaps it will be the ‘llellia, humming in response to the fierce grace of her dancing. He wonders how she learned, whether it is the instinctive rhythm written into the third strand of her DNA that gives her this gift, or if the Silence, lacking the Schism, settled for the next best way of teaching her to move through the endlessness of the universe. Perhaps someday she will teach him.

She plays every night and he lets it carry him through right here, right now, watching her as she gives her body and mind over to the song of the crashing tides of time.


End file.
